Mama June hurried to Preston’s side. She cupped his cheeks in her hands and bent to kiss him soundly on the mouth. “You really are an incredibly clever man!”
Any attic in the month of July is hot, but an attic in the southern United States at any time in the summer is a living hell.
Morgan breathed in air so thick and humid he imagined the mildew growing on his lungs. He prowled through cardboard boxes so moist they were mushy to the touch. His father’s leather briefcase was coated with a layer of mold, and cartons of file boxes were filled with yellowed papers polka-dotted with mildew. The black dust coated his fingers like moss, and the sweat poured from his brow and down his back faster than he could replenish with the sweet tea Nona kept bringing him.
Despite the punishing heat, however, Morgan didn’t rush. He charily scrutinized every paper that passed his hand. Hours crawled by, yet he was surprised when he was called down for lunch. The morning had passed, but he’d only dug his way through half the attic. Mama June, worried he’d pass out in the heat, insisted he take a cool shower and change his clothes, which he did gratefully. She prepared him a cool lunch of gazpacho soup, cold salmon, salad niçoise and ice cream for dessert. Thus fortified, he returned to Hades.
Several more hours passed in his deliberate slowness. He finished plowing through another stack of boxes and moved them to the back of the attic. Coughing in the stirred dust that floated in the relentless rays of sun from the windows, he faced another stack of sealed boxes. He was wiping his brow with his sleeve and considering whether to just call it quits for the day when his gaze fell upon a box with the black magic marker numbers 1989.
He dropped his arm and his heart skipped faster. With a wild swipe he tore off the tape and dug into the contents. Slow down, he ordered himself, and his fingers slowed to a painstaking pace as he flipped through the files.
He found the post-Hurricane Hugo damage report that his father had filed with the insurance company. It was painstakingly thorough and portrayed an accurate picture of the devastating loss of his dairy house, the smoke house, a herd of cows, outbuildings and barns, the peach orchard and the harvest of his crops. Morgan found old tax bills—almost laughable compared to today’s bill—the mortgage payments, health insurance, life insurance…all of the usual records of bills and payments made. Then his hands stilled. He saw it. A manila file marked Adele.
The sweat made the dust on his fingers muddy, so he paused to rub his hands against his pants. He took a deep breath. Then he reached out to pick up the folder. Like all the others, this one was spotted with mildew and soft to the touch from all the humidity. He opened it. Several legal papers slipped out into his lap. He licked his dry lips and began to read, scanning the papers quickly. Then he went back and read them again, more slowly this time, making sure he didn’t omit anything important while his adrenaline had the best of him.
When he finished, Morgan leaned back against the stack of dusty boxes and stretched his long legs out in front of him. His mind wandered as his gaze traveled down his dirty T-shirt to his khaki shorts. He’d cut them from old trousers and the hem was raggedy and frayed. Motes of dust clung to the soft hairs on his legs.
He looked at the papers in his hands again. Slowly, a grin creased the dust coating his face, spreading across his cheeks, stretching from ear to ear. He felt absolutely giddy. A small giggle escaped from his lips. He looked around, making sure no one could hear him. Then from his gut a laugh burst forth.
Oh, dear Aunt Adele. We have you now.
He laughed again, and with a jubilant whoop he reached over to grab hold of his sweet tea. His hand was so sweaty he knocked over the glass and the tea spilled all over the small chest it rested upon. Muttering a short curse, he put the contract papers carefully back into the file and set it out of harm’s way. Grabbing the towel he’d been using to wipe his face, he began mopping up the tea. The dark tannin colored the leather strips of the old chest and he worried if some of the liquid had somehow spilled between the cracks of wood into the contents of the chest.
It was unlocked. He lifted the lid and immediately caught a whiff of the scent of mothballs and cedar. It was a dainty trunk, a girl’s chest, lined with a feminine floral fabric. Someone had taken steps to preserve this chest. It seemed to be filled with mementos of the past. Looking closer, he recognized the plaster cast of his hand that he’d made for his mother as a little boy. Enchanted, he took it out to study it. Was he ever that small? he wondered. He also found his sister’s print, and choking up a bit, his brother’s. He placed his hand beside Hamlin’s chubby print, dwarfing it.
Curious now, he began to browse through this collection of odds and ends, most of them about him and his siblings. He hadn’t known his mother had saved all this stuff. He knew she was tenderhearted and nostalgic, but discovering the three silver boxes that held locks of each of their hair gave him new insight into the depths of her devotion.
He chuckled when he read some of the cards they’d made her for Mother’s Day and birthdays. It amazed him that he actually remembered them!
There weren’t many photographs, just the few select set into this treasure box by choice. The first was a photograph of him, Hamlin and Nan hanging in the big oak tree like monkeys and Mama June sitting on the circular bench beneath. Her feet were tucked under her skirt, a scarf was at her neck and she was radiant. Morgan remembered that she smiled a lot in those days.
There were more photographs—the kids in school or in costume or with Santa. There was one of Mama June and Daddy. His father looked so young with his smooth, tanned skin and can-do smile. His wavy hair—so much like Morgan’s—refused to be slicked back in the style of the day; a wayward curl hung over his forehead. His arm was tight around Mama June in a possessive grip, and both of them were smiling at the camera.
He recognized a photograph of his Blakely grandparents, even though they’d died before he was born. There was one of Granddad and Grandmama Clark, too. Aunt Adele smiled up from another. She was young, windswept and, Morgan thought, a real looker.
One photograph caught his attention. Bringing it closer, he studied the black-and-white photograph of a handsome young man in jeans and a T-shirt rolled up at his biceps. He had dark hair and a wide, engaging smile. At first glance, Morgan had thought it was his brother, Hamlin. But the man was older and the clothes were all wrong. Checking the back of the photograph, he saw the words Tripp, Blakely’s Bluff, written in his mother’s script, and the date 1957. He’d seen photographs of his uncle Tripp before, but not many. There was this mystique about the man and something very secretive about his death. He remembered people talking about it in hushed voices after Hamlin died. His uncle had died in a boating accident, too, and it had angered him that people were making comparisons.
He put the photograph back in the box. It was just a lousy coincidence, he thought now as he’d thought then. A cruel twist of fate.
Growing weary, he poked around a few more things and began to lose interest in the oppressive heat. He glanced through the papers quickly now. There were some scattered papers of pink stationery, probably from Nan when she was a teenager. He chuckled softly, remembering how religiously she’d written home from college. He casually read a few lines.
My dearest Tripp,
I can’t believe it’s been a month since we’ve seen each other. I miss you, miss you, miss you! When are you coming up to see me? It’s not such a long trip and we’ll find a way to make it special. We always do.
Morgan froze. What the hell? This wasn’t from Nan. It couldn’t be. Picking it up, he recognized his mother’s handwriting, only younger, not as defined, with lots of flourishes. Dearest Tripp? Not Preston? He looked at the date—1957. The year his parents were married.
His mouth went dry and he could hear his blood roar in his ears. He shouldn’t read it. After all, it was personal. He hesitated. Hadn’t his mother given him carte blanche to go through everything in the attic? He looked over his shoulder, his gaze crafty,
feeling it was wrong. But something was tugging at him. What was going on? What else didn’t he know?
He lowered his head and began to read.
Morgan drew his knees close to his chest, his arms dangling lifelessly over them. The letters lay scattered on the floor beside him. He didn’t feel the heat intensely any longer. He didn’t feel anything at all. It was as if he was some meaningless, dim-witted bug that had haplessly flown head straight into a gossamer web of lies and deceit. He felt unable to move while the spider’s venom spread throughout his limbs, numbing them.
Yet even in the numbness he felt a thrumming of pain that told him even though he felt dead, wished he were dead, he was still alive. He knew this feeling. It was how he’d felt after his brother’s drowning.
He used to go to remote places like the barn or the attic to curl up, close his eyes and wait for sleep to finally come. When the nightmares began, however, they were worse—much worse. That’s when he’d started reading. He read anything he could get his hands on and he read all the time. In books he’d found a place to escape.
But he was too old to hide out in attics and forts. The truth was the truth, like it or not. He knew what he was getting himself into when he’d decided to read those letters. No one put a gun to his head. It was his choice.
He rose quickly and immediately felt light-headed. Bursts of white light and black dots clouded his vision. Putting his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose, he breathed deeply and waited to get his equilibrium back. Then, feeling as old and gimp-legged as Blackjack, he made his way from the sizzling heat of the attic down into the cooler air of his mother’s house.
He found her in her room, reading by the window. Her head darted up like a small bird’s when he walked in, and over the rims of her reading glasses her blue eyes brightened at seeing him. Then, registering his dirty state, the seriousness of his expression and the way his hands hung low at his sides, her smile grew shaky.
“You didn’t find it?” she asked.
He walked closer. “I found it.”
Her brows knit in puzzlement. “Oh? It wasn’t what you’d hoped?”
“I guess. I don’t know,” he replied dispassionately. “I’ll have to show it to the lawyers and let them tear it apart, but I think we’ve got something. We have a chance.”
She looked at him, her eyes clouded with confusion. “That’s what you wanted, right? Then why the sorry face?” Her eyes narrowed in speculation as she reached out toward the mattress. “Come sit down. Tell me about it.”
Morgan took a deep breath and looked around the room, aware of the ticking of the clock. It was a tidy room, bright and airy with windows overlooking the marsh. Her slippers were set beneath a porcelain hook that held her chenille robe. A large armoire adorned with hand-painted flowers stood against the far wall. Her small writing desk was tucked beneath a dormer and on this was a silver-framed photograph of the family, taken years ago, shortly before Hamlin’s death. He looked to be about eighteen. Morgan thought back. His brother was born in April 1958. The date of the letter was September 1957. He clenched his hands.
She looked different to him now. The halo he’d always placed around her head had tarnished. He felt betrayed. It was like he didn’t know her anymore.
He sat stonily on the edge of the mattress, directly across from his mother.
“Morgan, something’s wrong.”
Morgan lifted his right hand and held it out to his mother.
Her gaze lowered to his hand. Clutched in his fingers were several sheets of pale pink stationery. Mama June’s eyes widened in recognition. Her mouth opened in a soft, wounded gasp.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. In his mother’s pale eyes he saw shock, then horror, then sorrow flicker as she stared at the innocuous-looking sheets of paper that they both knew held her deepest, most private secret.
“You read them.” It was more a confirmation than a question. “Yes.”
Her eyes were round and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself.
Morgan drummed his fingers against the paper. His nails were rimmed with dirt from the attic. Mama June held her breath as she watched a small tic work in his cheek.
“Was Uncle Tripp Hamlin’s father?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh, God,” escaped her lips. This was the one question she’d steeled herself against for forty-seven years. She physically brought her shoulders in, making herself smaller, turning away from his relentless stare.
Her mind scrambled for choices. She could simply reply no. But Morgan wasn’t stupid. He had the evidence in his hands and he could figure out by counting that she was lying. Or she could choose not to answer him at all. She could tell him it was none of his business, berate him for sneaking through her personal things and ask him to leave. Her mind veered from this choice. Hadn’t she walked down that path of silence too often already? Lord, don’t let me be a coward now, she prayed.
Turning back to face him, she nodded almost imperceptibly. Forty-seven years of pain streamed down her cheeks.
Morgan looked stunned, as if he’d just taken a bullet but hadn’t yet fallen.
“When were you going to tell me?”
Her shoulders slumped at hearing the hurt in his voice. “I don’t know.”
“You might never have!” he said accusingly.
“If it were up to me, no! I don’t think I ever would have. What’s in those letters is private. You weren’t meant to read them. No one was,” she said, her voice rising in self-defense.
“I’m not sorry I read them! It’s the only way I ever would have known. God! I can’t believe it.” His laugh was bitter, even desperate. “It explains a lot about you and Daddy.”
“You don’t know anything about the two of us!” she cried. “How dare you speak of that? You weren’t even born then.”
“Is he even my father?”
She sucked in her breath and looked into her son’s eyes. They were the exact same shade of blue as his father’s.
“How can you even ask that?”
His eyes grew icy, mocking. “How can I ask that?” He lifted the letters. “I’m not the one who was tramping around like some—”
Mama June’s hand shot out to crack against his cheek.
Morgan’s head jerked back and his eyes filled as they stared at each other, both stunned at how far they’d gone. She felt the ice between them—a glacier of silence—explode and splinter into a million shards around them.
“Morgan…” She reached out to him, her palm still tingling. She’d never raised her hand to him before.
Morgan’s eyes brimmed with disbelief and hurt. He brought his hand to his cheek.
“Preston is your father,” she said in a voice that allowed no doubt. “Yours and Nan’s.”
Morgan slumped and dropped his forehead into his palm. He seemed to grind flesh against flesh. His tears were flowing freely now.
“Then why did he love Hamlin more than me?”
Mama June’s heart cracked at seeing her son’s agony.
“He didn’t!”
“Yes, he did!” he exclaimed, rearing back and raising his tear-filled eyes at her accusingly. He seemed angry that he was crying, ashamed. He was like an injured animal, snarling and lashing out. “Don’t lie to me! It won’t work anymore. Everything Hamlin did was the best. Everything I did was shit. It was hard enough to live in the favored son’s shadow.” He took a labored breath. “But it was impossible to live up to the potential of Hamlin after he died.”
“Morgan…”
“After Hamlin died, every time Daddy looked at me, I saw disappointment. I could see…” He swallowed thickly and brought his voice under control. “He was sorry it was Hamlin that died out there instead of me.”
“Stop it! Stop it right now!” she cried out, not fully comprehending the depths of what she’d heard but rejecting it all.
“I won’t,” he said with wounded belligerence. “It’s the truth. Hamlin could do no wrong. But Daddy found
something wrong with everything I did. He pushed me, pushed me till I couldn’t take it anymore. I hated him for it! Hated him for making me feel worthless.” His voice cracked but he forced out, “I hated him for not loving me.”
Mama June grew frightened as she watched her son break up. This was something bigger than she knew how to heal. It bordered on dangerous.
“Morgan, please try to understand,” she said, wringing her hands. “Yes, your father loved Hamlin very much. No one can ever doubt that. But you! Don’t you see? It’s not that he didn’t love you enough. It’s that he loved you too much.”
Morgan stepped away, shaking his head. “I don’t believe you.”
“You are his son. He loves you.”
He laughed bitterly, then turned and fled the room.
18
“Sharing the knowledge is like giving something back.”
—Harriett Bailem Brown, basket maker
NONA STEPPED OUT ONTO the back porch to find Mama June sitting in her rocker, her shoulders quaking. She came directly to her side and placed a hand reddened from dishwater on her shoulder.
“I saw Morgan dash out of here like a bat out of hell,” she told Mama June. “And here you are crying. Someone’s got a story to tell.”
Mama June brought her hand to her mouth to muffle her crying and shook her head, indicating that she didn’t want to talk about it.
“Mmm-hmm,” Nona hummed through pursed lips. She came around to her customary rocker beside Mama June’s and settled noisily in it.
“It’s been a long day…and it’s only three o’clock,” she said. When Mama June didn’t reply, Nona added, “I can sit here for the rest of the day. I’m in no hurry, and Lord knows I deserve it.”
The two women sat in their usual rockers and didn’t speak. The quiet of the vast outdoors buffered them against the noise of all the family issues and problems that had blared resoundingly all day. Mama June ceased crying and let the peace settle in her. With a true friend, there was no need to fill the void.
Sweetgrass Page 30